


A Thousand Words

by Alethia



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Brad POV, M/M, Nate is a badass, Pictures, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 06:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2458382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don't Ask, Don't Tell was one thing, but no one needed to fucking ask when there were libo pictures of Brad's cock down some guy's throat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Words

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, _Generation Kill_ , as written by Ed Burns and David Simon and as portrayed by Alexander Skarsgard, Stark Sands, and others. It is a work of fiction, ergo it never happened.
> 
> My thanks to [](http://ricochet.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**ricochet**](http://ricochet.dreamwidth.org/) for her insightful beta. All mistakes are my own. Originally posted [here](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/679526.html#cutid1).

The knocking at Brad's door sounded loud in the early morning air. Three swift raps, like the visitor was owed an immediate answer. _Hop to, Sergeant._

It was too early to be decent, the air so crisp it bit. Brad was awake out of habit, wondering if the waves would be shit again, but the knocking put a halt to that idle contemplation. This was something. 

His first thought was bad news about one of the guys, but when he opened the door Lieutenant Fick stood there, aggressively casual, like it wasn't unusual to find him on Brad's doorstep at 7am.

Part of him wished that were true...the traitorous part that Brad made sure to crush every time it made itself known. Fick was his commanding officer—thankfully competent, necessarily distant, frustratingly untouchable, period. 

"Lieutenant," Brad said neutrally. 

Fick nodded in greeting. Wearing board shorts and a threadbare tee, he looked like a college kid in need of a good debauching...and oh, how Brad would happily volunteer. But that was fantasy and Fick's image was all surface; underneath was the steel of the Marine officer, the do-not-fuck-with-me vibe that just made him more enticing. But Brad had trained himself to ignore all that. 

"I parked my car three blocks over," Fick said nonsensically.

"How nice for you, sir."

Fick's eyes flashed. "Invite me in, Sergeant." No request there, that was an order. On a Saturday morning, off-base, out of uniform, parking a strategic distance away so as not to be seen. 

Without a word, Brad opened the door and stood aside. Fick didn't even hesitate; he walked in like it was his due, his domain, no question of it ever being otherwise. An imperious flick of his wrist sent the door swinging shut behind him. 

It really wasn't fair how he made even the little things compelling. 

Fick took something from his pocket as he turned, tossing it at Brad. Brad caught it automatically, raising an eyebrow when he saw it was a photo envelope, one of those cheap flimsy paper ones, a stack of pictures inside. He looked up in question, but Fick just nodded for him to go ahead. 

Brad pulled out the pictures—

 _Fuck_. 

His entire body froze as he caught sight of the first photo. Brad cursed himself for that damning pause—of course Fick would see it, would know—but he couldn't do anything about it after the fact, he had to keep going. He had to cover how much this threw him. 

Brad forced himself to idly flip through the rest of the pictures, gut churning. The relevant few were on top. Behind those were innocuous pictures of beaches and random people drinking chick drinks that insulted good taste by their mere existence. But the first ones—

Don't Ask, Don't Tell was one thing, but no one needed to fucking ask when there were libo pictures of Brad's cock down some guy's throat. The camera had caught it all: a nearby streetlight revealing Brad, pushed against the side of some bar, shirt shoved up and undone belt hanging loosely. There was no mistaking the nature of his partner, either, not with the short hair, the muscular figure; it was a _man_ very clearly going to town on Brad's cock, though that was thankfully covered. 

Buried down the guy's throat. Was that better? Did it matter?

Brad kept himself apart, cultivated an air of indifference, didn't engage. He patronized whores and had random one-offs. He didn't let people in. He'd done that once and he knew where it led.

But these pictures...they proved it was all _bullshit_. Brad looked appreciative, rapturous, fucking _wanton_ , the camera catching the little bit of shine from his wet lips, mouth open. His eyes were cast down, but he gave himself away with every line of his body, the slackness of his jaw, the way his fingers curled around the guy's ear. 

Instinctively Brad wanted to cover his face, less to hide the act than that terrifying vulnerability, something no one should ever see. Something that shouldn't even _exist_ , dammit. 

He'd never been into recording himself during sex—for _exactly this reason_ —but these pictures cut right to the heart of it, clarity like finally getting a scope on your target: Brad had only been fooling himself. Everyone else could see straight through him; he was a fucking open book.

Dimly it occurred to him that this was the end of his career. Brad held in his hands _the end of his career_. All he'd ever wanted to do, what focused him, fulfilled him—

Brad clamped down on himself, trying to wrestle the clawing thing in his chest into submission. His thoughts tumbling over one another, he couldn't help but play this out. And he knew, with the gut instinct that never failed him, this would taint his achievements forever. _You hear how the Iceman took out that enemy missile battery in Afghanistan? Yeah, but did you know he likes to suck cock?_

Brad wasn't some famewhore, but he'd _earned_ his reputation. When people talked about him, he _deserved_ it. And yet now, everything he'd done would be shaded by this. Diminished by this. 

All of these thoughts flew rapid-fire through Brad's brain. It took a fraction of a second for him to realize just how fucked he was. World-endingly fucked. It was amazing how quickly life could come crashing down. 

Brad looked back up and met Lieutenant Fick's gaze. At the very least, he could face it head-on.

Fick watched Brad closely. When delivering life-destroying news, some might offer a moment of privacy. Not Fick. He studied Brad like this was an experiment and Brad would reveal the statistical significance. 

Amidst the scrutiny, Fick's expression remained perfectly composed. Brad had no idea what he was thinking, what his plan was here. It could be a precursor to decking him for all he knew—

But no, Fick had given these pictures to Brad in the privacy of his own home. Brad prided himself on his ability to read people; Fick wasn't the type. 

So what was his angle? Why go to the trouble? Did Fick have some agenda here? After all, it was the perfect blackmail material, a career-shaming dirty little secret. _Tell me, Marine, what would you do to keep your job?_

Fick's expression shifted, so slight it'd be easy to miss. But Brad didn't miss things, not when he held these pictures in an oh-so-steady hand. No, he watched as surprise and then something like anger flickered through Fick's eyes. 

His voice, however, was perfectly even: "Now I'm insulted."

"By all means, let's talk about your feelings."

A smile ghosted over Fick's lips and quickly disappeared. Maddeningly, Brad's focus lingered there, on that gorgeous mouth. Apparently he'd learned nothing. 

Then again, failure to police his dick had already fucked him hardcore. He might as well go for the gold.

"Care to explain yourself?" Fick asked, eyebrows raised. 

"Would you?" Brad shot back. He knew he was playing this aggressive...but Fick had found a weak spot and Brad could never show fear, never give in. It was his defining mantra, drilled into him since forever. Do not back down. 

That got another hint of a smile from Fick, like this was about how he expected it to go. Surprisingly, his posture loosened. 

"Some concerned E-3 approached me yesterday, having finally gotten around to developing his libo pictures. And, well. People know the Iceman."

So it was already out among the hordes. By Monday everyone would know. No one beat the Marines at gossip dissemination; this shit spread like a spark in the tinderbox of a San Diegan summer. At least there wouldn't be any long, drawn-out revelations. Just rip that band-aid right off, get to the disgust and recriminations. Should be fun. 

Fick must have read something in his expression—dammit, he really needed to unfuck himself, something was broken—

"No, Brad, it's not like that."

"I respect that you had the decency to tell me yourself," Brad said stiffly, formal. It was honorable of him, truly. Most people wouldn't have bothered, especially given the foregone conclusion. "Of course I'll cooperate with any investigation—"

"Sergeant, stop." 

Brad shut his mouth, following orders so ingrained it wasn't even a conscious decision anymore. He'd have no orders to follow soon enough. Who would he be without them? He wondered. 

"There'll be no investigation," Fick said, like that itself was an order. He declared it and so it shall be. 

Being an officer had an element of ego to it, by your word decreeing men's fate. Brad could already see that Fick had the makings of a great one. He certainly held Brad enthralled, responding to him on a visceral level, and Brad didn't fawn over anyone. Ever. 

It was a damn shame Brad wouldn't get to be there to watch Fick realize his potential. It would've been something to see. 

"Pretty sure it doesn't work like that."

"You underestimate me," Fick said, some kind of reproach in his voice. "The negatives are in the front of the envelope. That's yours to keep." As if that were the end of it, Fick turned and opened the door. 

Brad spoke before he knew he'd meant to: "Wait." 

Fick paused at the threshold and looked back at Brad, limned by the early morning light. His expression was expectant. _My time is valuable; what is it?_

Brat felt at sea, didn't understand. "You said someone came to you—"

"And I handled it." That statement held the ring of finality to it, beyond question. And Brad...

Brad _believed_ him. Which was more of a surprise than anything yet. 

"Don't you want to know..." Brad trailed off, realizing where that went. Did he really want to describe just how drunk he'd been, how tight the guy's throat was, how much he'd like to see Fick take his place?

Fick's eyes bored into him, some kind of intensity to his words: "Where you stick your dick is your business. At least until you make it mine." One more pointed look and Fick was gone, door swinging shut behind him. 

Doubt warred with relief, Brad just now aware of the tang of adrenaline at the back of his throat. Amidst the chaos inside, one thought careened through, as demanding as reveille: oh, how he _wanted_ to make it Fick's business. And on its heels came something even more worrisome.

Possibility. 

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.


End file.
